


give me the burden

by Aminias



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Peter Hale, Happy Ending, Haunting, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, More Warnings in Authors Notes, Nemeton, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Psychological Horror, Self-Denial, The Nemeton keeps phoning Stiles and the boy is taking its calls, Trance - Freeform, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminias/pseuds/Aminias
Summary: Her name is Claudia, and more then anything she wants a child.She wants a child so badly that she dares dance near the old hangman's tree, tracing blood in circles on the bark.It’s a stump now, but it remembers what it used to be.And so Claudia makes promises beyond what she can keep, and steals the devil's backbone.Her boy is born with a strong heart, mischief in his eyes, glory at his fingertips and a debt to pay.





	give me the burden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/gifts), [DenaCeleste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/gifts).



> Thanks to reb/ SlasherFiend for eyeballing it and adding those commas. DenaCeleste for setting things right and making me look way better then I am! Seriously, you're a doll for hopping on. Thank you, both for taking the time to beta read. 
> 
> Hisa kept this going at the start and moony and others rolled it along. 
> 
> Please view endnotes if you don't mind spoilers and need some more warning. 
> 
> The Civil Wars- Devil's Backbone

Where she walks the darkness follows. He watches from the bed when Mama enters the room.

 

Stiles is pale and gleaming, standing out amid the oozing black. Shadows reach out in tendrils to touch him and he giggles.

 

Mama smiles razor sharp and ruffles his hair. Her footsteps are red, the scent of iron and blood heady in the air.

 

He ducks her hand, then peeks out from the covers. They put Mama in the ground yesterday, but he knew she wouldn’t stay there. She’d promised. Daddy hadn’t remembered to pour the salt around her tomb, and Stiles hadn’t reminded him.

 

After a moment's hesitation, he raises his arms and she picks him up.  Leaves stick to her hair and tumble down.

 

There's grave dirt on her brow and he lifts a small hand to wipe it off.

 

Stiles' fingers are covered in something wet and sticky. The moon glows balefully through the window. He frowns, wide eyes looking at the inky black on his hand.  

 

"Mommy?"

 

"Shhh my darling, shh." Her tongue clicks, and she makes a crooning noise as he buries his face in her neck.

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t remember much about that night. At least, he claims not to.

 

He knows there was the Moon staring down at him and the cool night's air kissing his cheek.

 

Some huge stump and a wolf's howl. Everything gets jumbled up in his head till he can only process five things.

 

How he bit his own lip screaming in pain.

 

His nose twitching at the coiling scent of blood like fermented wine.

 

The texture of the tree bark beneath him.

 

There’s an ancient voice snarling in anger, then a scream like his mom’s.

 

Tree roots tall and inescapable clawing upwards and red eyes, before rolling darkness envelops him.

 

“Stiles are you alright?” Scott asks.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He grimaces and changes it into a grin. “Just a headache, what were we talking about?” His leg bounces under the table, heart beating rabbit-fast.

 

“Derek's mother, Talia.” Lydia briefly looks up from an old text.

 

Something in his mind twinges and Stiles twitches, reaching for his temple. “She could do a full shift. It’s pretty cool,” Scott continues on oblivious.

 

Peter’s nose wrinkles in disdain from behind his laptop, and he and Stiles share a commiserating look. He can feel Hale’s eyes tracking his movements even when Stiles glances away.

 

Lydia closes her book and stands to brush down her clothes. There's something chilling in her eyes. It’s a familiar steel he’s gotten used to after the Nogitsune. She doesn’t provide an explanation for setting aside the text. He doesn’t ask.

 

It sets the tone for the evening, and nothing further is accomplished. That night he shudders awake, skin drenched with sweat, thorns caught in his shirt, dirt in his mouth, and grunge under his nails.

 

* * *

 

Once, there was a woman wily as she was beautiful, who loved the wilderness and the sublimity of nature. Her travels took her from shore to shore, and the magic of her smile ensnared many.

 

One ensnared was a Deputy, and he didn’t care if she spent too much time in the woods or tracked in dirt and mud at night. She decided she’d keep that one.

 

Her name is Claudia, and more than anything she wants a child.  
  
She wants a child so badly that she dares dance near the old hangman's tree, tracing blood in circles on the bark. It’s a stump now, but it remembers what it used to be. And so Claudia makes promises beyond what she can keep, and steals the devil's backbone.

  
Her boy is born with a strong heart, mischief in his eyes, glory at his fingertips, and a debt to pay.

* * *

 

Derek inhales and gives Stiles a frown, eyebrows drawn together. “You smell different.”

 

Stiles laughs and sniffs under his armpits. “Must be that funky lacrosse locker room stink.” He doesn’t mention that when he spit out mouthwash this morning, blood and dirt washed down the sink too.

 

“No offense Stiles, but you smell weird, you always smell weird.” Scott shrugged.

 

“None taken buddy.” They shoulder bump and high five, and Stiles does his best to block out the screeching in the back of his brain. The pain at his temples has only gotten worse.

 

Peter’s silent assessment weighs on him and that smirk is infuriating. Something's going to need to be done about that.

 

Sleep has become a foreign concept since the Nogitsune. He doesn’t like to take Nyquil too many nights in a row. The medicine doesn’t always agree with his other meds, and it feels too close to addiction for comfort.  

 

He fights through every night: jolting awake to huddle under his blankets, or hover on the edge of the bed, even under it in the cool dark, more times than he can count. When the morning sun peaks through the window, he turns his red-rimmed eyes to the dawn and cries in relief. Despair has long since sunken into his skin.

 

The loft is well lit and he keeps track of the shadows in the room, careful that the nails digging into his hand don’t break skin.

 

Derek summons Scott for some werewolf bonding or whatever and Stiles sees his chance.

 

“What are you plotting?” He addresses the one wolf whose gaze still crawls across his skin.

 

Peter crosses his hands. “Plotting? Me? No.” He widens his eyes and chuckles.

 

“Planning then,” Stiles hisses, pacing.

 

“Why I never, a lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” He rolls his shoulders and Stiles follows the motion, watching the flex of Peter’s biceps. If Peter had a mustache, he'd be twirling it.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says but Stiles is too focused on the burning in his head. A whine of pain escapes his lips. He’s distantly aware of his knees buckling and falling to the unforgiving floor. Stiles clutches his head. Black spots crawl before his eyes and the shadows grow teeth circling closer.

 

“Mi-”

 

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, awareness returning. Peter’s crouched beside him, black veins crawling up his arms, one warm hand on his neck, supporting Stiles’ head at the base.  “How did you know?” Panic flares up brief and bright before he fights it down.

 

“It’s not hard if you look and talk to the right people.” Peter muses, adjusting them both until he cradles Stiles between his legs.

 

“The records are sealed, you creepy bastard.” Stiles rolls his eyes and stretches out his legs. Peter is a warm weight behind him, and he lets himself lean into the older man's chest.

 

“They are.” Peter agrees with a hum, placing his chin on top of Stiles’ head. “I knew because I’ve heard your name before. Derek's mom mentioned it once in a conversation with Deaton.”

 

“You didn’t say her name,” Stiles notes, cracking his eyes open. For the first time in a week, his migraine is easing.

 

“Her name seems to have a singular effect on you and me.”

 

“You're not wrong. She-who-must-not-be-named seems to make things hurt,” he concedes, melting further into Peter's touch. Peter has dastardly hands that do things like massage Stiles’ shoulders and alleviate the pressure from his temples.

 

The low-level dread he’s been carrying around sits in the pit of his stomach. “Peter, what do I smell like?” he dares to ask. “Scott once said I was a bit like rotten eggs.” Stiles wrinkles his nose, unimpressed.

 

“Sulfur,” Peter corrects. “Smoke, ozone, rotting wet leaves. Have you been visiting graveyards?”

 

Stiles falls silent. “Not that I’m aware of,” he finally ventures with a nervous laugh.

 

Peter makes a strange wuffing sound and nuzzles the bare skin where Stiles’ T-shirt collar had slipped down.

 

“Hey- watch it! I don’t put out on the first date.” His heart stutters and his face flushes.

 

“Tabling the fact that was a lie, for now, I’m just getting a better whiff.” Peter said. Stiles squirmed, feeling the scratch of Peter’s stubble. Parts of him were stirring to attention that he’d rather not mention. The hand holding his neck tightens and Peter’s other arm wraps around his chest, pulling him flush against the older man. “Shh, Stiles, don’t move.”

 

Stiles goes still and tilts his neck, unable to shake the past now that the memory had sprung free.

 

“Dirt,” Peter remarks. “Almost like mildew and rot with stagnant water mixed with,” Peter drew in a breath and blew out, causing Stiles to shiver from the heat, “ADHD meds. Iron, no, blood. My, you have been busy.”

 

Stiles wets his lips, mouth dry. He bites his tongue and forces himself to pull away from Peter's arms.

 

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” Liar. The sun had slowly gone down and there was less light in the loft then before. His gaze skitters around and he forces himself to breathe.

 

“Oh, but I think you do.” Peter raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I think something was stopping you from remembering and you’ve just started to wake up.”

 

“Back off,” Stiles warns. Something shifted within and his skin feels paper thin, itchy and  wrong.  His jaw aches and his teeth don’t sit right in his mouth. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

 

Peter lifts his hands, palms up in acquiescence.

 

Darkness cuts across part of the loft. The window lets in the last vestiges of sunlight.

Crickets chirp, the noise turns static, ringing in Stiles’ skull like a countdown.

 

Peter’s nostrils flare and his eyes flash blue. Stiles ignores the concern he sees written there on Peter’s face. He doesn’t want it. The air leaves the room.

 

“Yeah okay, Derek.” Scott, bless his heart, says, footsteps sounding at the door.

 

Stiles takes in a breath and drops his shoulders, angling his body away from Peter.

“Hey, Scott,” he calls when his friend enters the room. “You ready to go?”

 

Derek looks behind Stiles at Peter, expression vexed.

 

“Sure bro, let's head out. Thanks for the walkthrough, Derek.”

 

Derek grunts, taking his eyes off his Uncle.

 

“I’ll be seeing you, Stiles,” Peter says.

 

“Count on it,” he replies, and lets the door slam on his way out.

 

* * *

 

The moon shines through his window, a phase away from full, and Stiles sits cross-legged on the bed.

 

He clenches his teeth and uncrosses his legs, scooting to the edge of the bed. The floor is cool beneath his bare feet and ice claws up his spine. There's a mirror on his dresser, but he turns away from it, watching the darkness roll across the floor.

 

Stiles takes a step and the ground beneath him becomes wet. He swallows, coughing as if his throat is clogged with ash, and stumbles out of the house.

 

The night swarms around him, shadows gliding under his skin.

 

Dirt mixes with his wet tracks, and he slips on the grass.

 

He can’t see the way, eyes unable to permeate the blackness that blankets the forest like a funeral shroud.

 

He feels in front of him and his hands land on an unfamiliar texture. He jerks back, startled, and trips over a root in surprise. It’s only a tree branch.

 

Mind smoking and forehead hot to the touch, he stumbles on, deeper into the woods. He swears he feels eyes on him through the trees.

 

Primordial keening starts up, drawing him closer. The ringing begins again, sparse and tolling like a death knell.

 

Before him emerges a clearing, and at the center resides the stump from his dreams.

 

The Nemeton.

 

Blood drips slides down his hands and leaves the cuts on his feet. The beat rises staccato and holding, tension in the air palpable as roots curl forward, yearning to taste him.

 

Shhh, my darling, shh, the gloom says.

 

Leaves swirl into a figure with yawning teeth and his mother’s smile, and he reaches out to touch.

 

“Stiles!” Peter snarls, knocking him aside. They tumble to the ground in a flurry of leaves and blood.

 

“Let me go! I have to go to her she’s calling me!” Stiles screams, fighting Peter’s hold and clawing at him to be free.

 

“No!” Peter roars, snagging him by his clothes and once more tackling him down. “Of all the foolish things, Stiles, it’s not your mother.”

 

“You're wrong,” he declares, twisting, trying to escape and yowling like a beast in pain when he falls short.

 

“I can’t let you.” Peter holds him tight, even when Stiles' hands form fists and he kicks and bites, tears streaming down his face. “That’s it, sweetheart, let it out, but I won’t let you go.”  

 

Stiles chokes on a sob.

 

Maybe he’s known she’s been dead but hadn’t wanted to accept it. Letting go of someone is hard when their ghost still haunts you. Stiles has always had to be the strong one, never given the chance to break down. He needed his mother more than he needed to let her go.

 

“Stay,” he says, voice cracking and hands scrabbling to hold on now, rather than escape. “Please don’t go, too.”

 

Peter rocks him and, just as he asked, doesn’t let go. If anyone understands all-consuming grief, it’s Peter. Stiles wonders if the Nemeton ever called to him, too, and that's how he knew what to look for. Stiles had no one to get revenge on, nowhere to place the blame but himself. No release valve, only the comfort of his mother’s shade.

 

He’s not alone anymore, a comfort in their shared understanding. Peter doesn’t give him pity or empty condolences. He holds out his hands and tugs Stiles up with him, offering silent support.

 

Stiles stares at the Nemeton, the stump that somehow managed to haunt them both, until Peter nudges him. They turn away as one unit to face the dawn, together, no longer alone to shoulder a burden that’s too heavy.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much the Nemeton is tricking Stiles and luring him to it and taking his life. 
> 
> As a kid he is taken by a mysterious figure pretending to be his mom thats a monster and its implied he suffers- child in peril. 
> 
> Talia messed around and made Stiles forget when he was taken as a kid. This starts to fail due to the Nogitsune and how is mind is post the Demon, he gets massive headaches when Talia is mentioned in reference to what happened he tries to remember. 
> 
> Stiles mentions taking Nyquill as a sleep aid and not for a cold and fearing addiction 
> 
> At one point Stiles seems to almost become the creature in the first part that mimed being his mom and took him away.  
> He goes to the Nemeton which tries to eat him and fights Peter when he tries to stop Stiles from pretty much letting the evil tree eat him.


End file.
